


a wicked pack of cards

by marschallin



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Fortune Telling, Gen, Omens & Portents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-09-15 00:20:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16923144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marschallin/pseuds/marschallin
Summary: In which Combeferre visits a famous card reader. He affirms nothing, not even prophecies, and denies nothing, not even the potential that someone is pulling his leg.





	1. Chapter 1

It was a grim, blustery December evening: cold enough to feel chilled even after an hour sitting by the fire, somehow wet and dry all at once. The general effect of the weather was that, despite the upcoming Christmas holiday and every other reason for high spirits, the mood in the back room of the Musain was subdued.

Courfeyrac, eyes glazed over, drained his glass and slouched further. "Someone say something amusing," he called out.

"Something amusing," said Enjolras, hunched over Rousseau's _Discours sur l'origine et les fondements de l'inégalité parmi les hommes_. He was trying to create a sturdier cipher, their previous method of encrypting messages having been unceremoniously discovered during Courfeyrac's roommate's overenthusiastic spring cleaning. The process of inventing a code seemed to involve marking the book with several different colors of ink and copious notes. That Enjolras was managing it with a stuffy nose inclined Courfeyrac to be gentler with their leader than he might have been otherwise. He turned his attention elsewhere,

"Is that a pack of cards? Combeferre, play a game with me before I wither away."

"I'll join," added Joly, sitting up a little straighter.

"It's not a game, exactly. Or not the kind you think." Combeferre moved his hands so that they covered the images on the cards as he shuffled them back and forth. There was the slightest pinkish tinge to the tips of his ears, though his expression remained as distant as ever. Courfeyrac, trained like a bloodhound to sniff out weakness, moved his chair closer and sat down, hands in his lap, expectant.

Combeferre took a moment to contemplate his next action and, having decided that there would be no getting rid of Courfeyrac now, lay his cards out on the table.

"They're a German variety. They are used for a game, _Das Spiel der Hofnung_ , but I do not know the rules."

"I do. It's a race, much like quatorze, but not nearly as amusing." They all turned to stare at Grantaire, fussing with his nails in the corner. He shrugged. "My mother is Austrian. I do have some knowledge of the world, if only that of women's entertainments." He resumed picking at his cuticles with increased gusto.

They turned back to Combeferre.

"Your mother lives in Paris,"said Joly. "So you have no excuse."

"Yes, well, that's actually part of the story. I've mentioned, I believe, the ongoing legal... kerfuffle over my inheritance."

Enjolras looked up from his work and, somehow managing to look noble while holding in a sneeze, put his hand on Combeferre's shoulder. They'd all attended his father's funeral out of affection and an assumption, proven false, that their presence could provide some comfort to the bereaved. M. Combeferre was well-loved and, even six months later, his loss weighed heavily on his youngest son.

"Are you deciding who gets the money on a card game? How civilized of you. It's like a duel but with no possibility of bloodshed or need to wake up early," Courfeyrac teased.

"Ah," said Combeferre, growing pinker by the moment. "Well, my mother is very frustrated, as you can imagine, especially not knowing where she may be living in a year's time or whether or not she can continue to pay for my sister's education. She wants... a sense of clarity, and--" He opened his arms as if to apologize. "I went with her, of course. She couldn't possibly have gone alone, and I admit, I was curious."

"I think we have missed a crucial point in this story somewhere along the way. _Where_ did you go?" Joly was trying not to look as curious as he was; the effect gave him a rather constipated expression.

Combeferre looked equally pained. "She's a very learned woman. Even Robespierre sought her council, and they say she predicted his ultimate end."

Prouvaire, lying on the floor and wondering if he'd really been sold hashish or, as Grantaire implied, a bundle of cookery herbs, sat up very quickly.

"You didn't! Oh, but you should have taken me along!"

"Madame Le Normand?" Enjolras did not smirk exactly, but the sides of his mouth did curl upwards every so slightly before falling back to equilibrium.

"My mother insisted," said Combeferre, squirming in place. He had the air of a child being reprimanded for some minor wrongdoing and trying to blame his crime on a sibling.

"And she used these cards?" Courfeyrac asked as he out to pull one from the pack. He flipped it over and held it up for inspection. There was a somewhat smudgy illustration of some daisies tied together for string.

"Ah, the bouquet. How apt. That represents flattery, cordiality, and friendship," Combeferre said, perhaps too quickly. Courfeyrac quirked an eyebrow.

"So you went to a fortune-teller and what? Now you're reading the future with a pack of German playing cards?" Joly reached into the deck and smiled. "I have a mouse! They are intelligent creatures, so I am vindicated."

"They represent disease," said Combeferre. Joly dropped the card.

"Well? What did Madame Le Normand say about your inheritance?" Courfeyrac picked up Joly's discarded card and examined it. He knew from experience that unless prodded, Combeferre would be perfectly happy to drop the subject and go back to his daydreaming.

There was a pause, during which Combeferre looked grave and Courfeyrac began to feel guilty.

"She knew everything," said Combeferre slowly, as if he needed time to remember how to put one word in front of the next. "She asked our birthdays and favorite colors and flowers and... That was all. She knew everything. She pulled the fish, which represents money, and the mountain, which is an obstacle. We didn't even have to ask the question. She saw my father in the coffin and the dog. I was the cross and the book." He glanced at Enjolras. "The cross represents convictions and principles. The book represents secrets and education. The cards knew, in a vague way, about l'ABC."

It took a moment for the group to fully contemplate the gravity of this.

Enjolras spoke first. "She doesn't..."

"No, she interpreted it to mean I'm a dedicated student, though I now know that the ring and the book might have translated that better. The cross is very clear. It is an inherently violent card."

"I don't know why you lot look so shocked," said Prouvaire, lounging on his elbows. "She is one of the wisest women in Europe."

"Perhaps it is a coincidence, but it is an extraordinary one. So I've decided to run some tests." Combeferre spoke with an air of finality, and for the first time, Courfeyrac noticed how tired he looked. He was unshaven and his cheekbones bulged slightly in the firelight, giving him a ghostly, corpse-like look. It was too easy to imagine him sitting alone in his garret, flipping through a pack of cards and then taking notes on the outcome, rethinking every natural law in existence to account for it. It was a depressing use of one's imagination.

"And your inheritance?" Enjolras asked with unusual gentleness.

"The stork and the crossroads. My mother will have to forge a new path." It was said with a wry smile, almost the cadence of a joke, but Courfeyrac saw how Combeferre's knuckles bulged from his fist.

"Well," said Joly. "I hope you haven't given up hope yet. Madame Le Normand may be wise, but I can't imagine that playing cards understand the delicacies of salic law. Musichetta reads palms and even she says that half of it is understanding what one wants to hear and then making it sound excessively theatrical."

"Perhaps Musichetta, whatever her charms, does not have The Gift," said Prouvaire, pulling himself off the floor with no small amount of groaning. His body felt very antique, which he attributed to the substance which he only recently determined to be hashish, not parsley and thyme.

"But what is The Gift and how does one acquire it? It is an infection, or a defect one is born with? And why does one need cards from Germany? Are German factories more conducive to magic, or have they some secret property that our poor piquet decks do not? Perhaps the images are drawn with a phoenix feather quill?" Joly said, laughing, and Combeferre laughed along, though his hands did not unclench.

"There are more things in heaven and earth," said Prouvaire in a sing-song voice, "than are dreamt of in your philosophy." He frowned and shifted through the cards somewhat erratically. "I do not find the hanged man. Is that not the card that so terrified Robespierre?"

"The hanged man belongs to the tarot. I suppose Madame Le Normand reads those as well, though she did not with me," Combeferre said. "My mother said that a friend was instructed to drink a cup of coffee, and afterwards Madame Le Normand saw images in the grounds."

"And you will experiment with those next, I am sure, once you have revealed the mysteries of--" Joly picked a card at random. "Infants?"

"That," said Combeferre, leaning forward to pluck the card out of Joly's hand,"is the child and represents innocence and immaturity."

"See? There is truth in the cards after all," said Prouvaire, grinning. "Will you read my fortune properly? Please? We can dim the candles, and if we wrap Enjolras's scarf around your head, it will make an excellent, if itchy, turban."

Enjolras coughed with some violence to emphasize his superior claim on the scarf.

"I am not very good," admitted Combeferre with no small bitterness. "I am working up to reading three or four cards together, and that makes a rather circumscribed fortune."

"Half a future is better than none at all. Come now, if anyone here has a connection to otherworldly prophecies, it's going to be you," said Courfeyrac, earning him a scowl from Prouvaire, who considered his own supernatural gifts very highly. Combeferre smiled.

"Please Denis?" Prouvaire pleaded, apparently recovered from Courfeyrac's slight. Combeferre colored at the use of his Christian name, but laughed and began gathering the cards into a pile.

"If you insist," he murmured, already engrossed in reshuffling. "Have you formulated your question?"

This took Prouvaire some time, most of which he spent sprawled on various pieces of furniture, some already inhabited. By the time he'd wrenched his attention from the way the candles flickered every so slightly whenever Enjolras sneezed, most of the party had broken up. Grantaire was asleep in the corner, and snoring loudly. Lesgles and Joly were off to "test Musichetta at palm-reading," which Courfeyrac assumed was innuendo. Bahoral had an engagement with his mistress, and Feuilly had to be in bed by midnight or he'd never get up in time for work.

Courfeyrac was on the verge of pleading exhaustion and heading home himself when Prouvaire, sitting on the table and kicking his legs up and down, began to laugh uproariously. As the room had previously been silent, this caused some shock among those remaining. Enjolras sneezed in surprise, and Combeferre dropped his book, a collection of Sybilline fragments recently translated in French.

"I have it!" exclaimed Prouvaire gleefully. "I shall ask the cards if my Christmas party will be a success!"

"I thought you were going into a fit," Combeferre grumbled.

"Really Jehan," said Courfeyrac, yawning. "I expected better of you. Where's your flair for the dramatic? Don't you want to know when you'll die?"

"I like a bit of mystery in my life," said Prouvaire.

"Except when it comes to parties?" Enjolras asked.

"Except when it comes to parties," Prouvaire repeated solemnly.

Enjolras, who would later discover that he was running a dangerously high fever, seemed momentarily lost in thought as he contemplated Prouvaire's philosophy and, finding it sound, nodded to himself and continued his work. Prouvaire sat in Joly's abandoned seat with his knees drawn up to his chest while Combeferre laid out three cards in a line.

"The coffin... Death of... Hm, you're alone, that's the tower, but the bear? Alone and brave? I'm sorry Jehan, I'm rubbish at this. It doesn't make any sense." The red patches on Combeferre's neck threatened to cover his face.

"There will be other parties," Courfeyrac said, clapping Prouvaire on the back. Prouvaire, unperturbed, held the bear card up to a candle.

"So my party won't be a success?" He asked, thumb caressing the side of the bear's pelt.

"Or, alternatively, this is a charlatan's magic trick. No offense meant, my friend," Courfeyrac said. "But Jehan, you must remember that we create our own fate. If you want your party to be a success, then make it so. Send out more invitations. Buy more liquor and stronger drugs. Decorate with increased enthusiasm."

Combeferre nodded. "It's not an exact science. Or a science at all."

For a moment, Prouvaire seemed plunged into melancholy. His face contorted, his lips pursed, and his hands shook. Then, almost as quickly as it began, it was over. He smiled.

"You're all coming, aren't you? So I won't be alone? If you attend, I'm sure we'll find a way to entertain ourselves."

Combeferre opened his mouth to make an excuse, any excuse, about his mother or his schoolwork or his health, but stopped when he saw Enjolras's face, oddly pale and furious.

"Citizen Prouvaire, you have my word that we will be there with you," Enjolras murmured, squinting hard at the light. Courfeyrac, full of his own excuses, let out a sharp intake of breath.

"Of course," he said. "You will never have to be brave by yourself while _les amis_ are here."

 

 


	2. epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a short epilogue for [shellcollector](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shellcollector/pseuds/shellcollector), who requested combeferre tending to enjolras later that night

“The heart, the tree, the sun… Love that brings strength and joy. I wonder what that might reference,” Combeferre teased as he laid out the cards on Enjolras’s lap. “The cards are funny things, really. They speak utter nonsense for hours and then suddenly, they’re perfectly apt. I suppose eventually coincidence wins out, but still.” He touched the edge of the heart card with his index finger and, suddenly red, began to reshuffle.

“When I was a boy,” Enjolras said slowly. “I took lessons on the violin and wanted to play a concerto, Mozart actually, for my grandmother’s birthday. It was her favorite. I practiced again and again until I could play it perfectly, but when it came time to perform, I made the most obvious mistakes. My terror of being watched interfered with my natural skill. Perhaps it is the same with your cards. You were nervous in front of the others, but now, in the privacy of our bed, your talent shines through.”

“That is not scientific,” Combeferre chided, though he smiled, and the sides of his eyes crinkled behind his spectacles. He cut the deck and drew a card, then frowned. “Blast. There will be difficulties with my nosology examination.” 

When Enjolras laughed, the wetness in his chest was distinctly audible. Combeferre sighed fondly and smoothed back a few yellow curls that had fallen in front of his eyes. “I wish you’d let me bleed you. Just one leech, just to drain the worst of the fever.”

“It’s a head cold,” Enjolras responded, not unkindly. “You know I habitually faint; let me remain upright, I beg you.”

“I daresay a syncope would be good for you, but I understand that it is uncomfortable. We will do without if you continue to improve, but in exchange for my magnanimity I expect you to submit to a mustard plaster without complaint. Tomorrow. I am out of clean muslin.” He reached for the patch of skin showing through Enjolras’s open nightshirt, caressing where the poultice would be applied. “You’re very warm.”

“Your hand is cold.” 

“Yes well,” Comberre made a dismissive gesture. “You are under the covers and I am not.”

Enjolras sniffed and pretended to examine the pattern on the coverlet. “And if you catch a chill, what then?”

“Let us ask the cards,” Combeferre replied good-naturedly. He pulled two at random and held them up for inspection. “The coffin and the cross: deadly convictions. Well, we certainly cannot have that; I will have to drop my convictions and join you in bed.” 

Bleary-eyed and vindicated, Enjolras shifted to the left and patted the open mattress. “We must obey the will of fate. Come.” 

Combeferre obeyed.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> whoops, guess who fell face-forward back into 1831.
> 
> madame le normand was a real person, and she really did read cards for robespierre (and tsar alexander and empress josephine and a lot of other famous people). she had a variety of methods, including, according to legend, a set of german cards used to play "the game of hope". after her death, those cards became marketed as "le petit lenormand" and are still used today. i couldn't find any definitive proof that the meanings associated to the cards were the same as they are now, but whatever who cares it's my fanfiction. 
> 
> sorry for all 'the wasteland' references i couldn't help myself. jehan is so learned that he can recite poems written 90~ years after his death. 
> 
> my understanding of the 19th century is that everyone was at all times embroiled in some sort of legal dispute over inheritance. please don't correct me if this is wrong.


End file.
